


Friend Like Bismuth

by HolidayHabit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crying Sherlock Holmes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I love them so much, Minor Character Death, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, can be seen as platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolidayHabit/pseuds/HolidayHabit
Summary: Mycroft Holmes has died unexpectedly, and Sherlock is not taking it well. John is trying.





	Friend Like Bismuth

When John Watson rushed through the door and into the flat, he hadn’t expected Sherlock to greet him as he stepped inside.

Sherlock was sat in front of the sofa, one knee tucked to his chest and the other sprawled out. He held his hands together as if he were praying, and rested his chin on his fingertips. His eyes stayed closed, as he finally spoke up.

“Hello John,” he said blandly, “Is Rosie still with Mrs. Hudson?”

John furrowed his brows. Not that Sherlock would notice.

“I thought,” the doctor began, “I saw on the news. Your brother.” He seemed to stutter. John had been expecting to find the apartment empty, to find his flatmate in a drug den some days later.

“What of it?” Sherlock spoke tersely, “If the arrangements are what has gotten you worked up, they were taken care of by his assistant. Since he is,” he stopped to clear his throat. “Was, a government official.”

John stiffened.

“Right. Anyways,” the older man shifted his weight to the other foot. “If you need anything at all, Sherlock, you know I’m here.” 

“That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I need you?” Sherlock’s brows furrowed. 

John started, “No reason at --"

“Actually,” the detective interrupted, “I could use your assistance." His expression hardened.

John nodded. “Right, mate. What do you need?”

“Can you grab my phone?” Sherlock didn’t bother to look up. “Upper right pocket.”

John swore Sherlock was going to be the death of him. He sighed, tossing his coat into his chair. He had been in such a rush to find Sherlock, he hadn’t taken it off before he went up the steps. The doctor begrudgingly trudged to his flatmate, fishing out the outdated device.

“What am I supposed to do with it now? Message Greg about a case?” John asked.

“God, no. I’m starving. Order take-out, will you? Preferably Thai.” Sherlock finally glanced at John, whose face was lit up by the light of the cell phone. The doctor’s face didn’t even scrunch in disdain but settled into a rather dull acceptance.

Sherlock’s eyes were mildly hopeful.

“Bloody hell, fine.” The gray haired man dialed the number to make the order. He ordered extra, as he wasn’t expecting much cooking to happen in the next few days.

As soon as he finished, he tossed the phone onto the sofa and took a seat next to it. He observed Sherlock from above. The detective’s eyes were closed again, he wore a completely passive expression. For some reason, it irritated John. John knew Sherlock for years and understood he wasn’t the best in any given emotional situation. He cringed as he inadvertently remembered the situation with Sherlock’s sister from a few months before.

However, Sherlock’s brother passed away. They hardly got along, but surely Sherlock had to feel something towards the situation. Mildly upset? Startled? John didn’t understand why his flatmate seemed so… Passive. Uncaring. He’d like to think in the several years he’s known him, perhaps Sherlock has lowered some of his walls? Become a bit more emotionally aware?

Mycroft Holmes always made sure Sherlock was taken care of. He deserved more than to be a passing thought in Sherlock’s mind.

John had hoped he wouldn’t find Sherlock in a drug den, but this wasn’t much better.

The thoughts seemed to gnaw at him. He huffed, which went unnoticed by the dark haired man.

“Sherlock, I don’t get you.” The doctor began with little hesitation. He looked away from his flatmate. “I know emotions aren’t really your thing,” his frown deepened, “But Mycroft only died a few hours ago. Does that mean anything to you at all?”

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. John was nearly positive he has tuned him out in favor of browsing his mind palace. He shook his head.

“He took care of you,” John began to feel out of place. “He tried to keep you safe anyway that he could, and now, you don’t have that cushion behind you if you ever step out of line.” Guilt crawled up John’s spine, but the anger seemed to burn that away.

John combed his fingers through his hair.

“Maybe you just don’t want to think about it right now, but bloody hell, Sherlock. It hasn’t even been a day,” the doctor continued to vent. “You can’t use him as leverage if you want to sneak into another facility anymore,” he shook his head. “And he’s not going to be there to bust you out of trouble if you get caught.”

Maybe John was stepping into grounds he shouldn’t have, but he blamed it on the fact that he found out about Mycroft’s death through the news, and not Sherlock himself.

The doctor had started to see Mycroft if a new light after the situation with Eurus. Mycroft made several mistakes, but he put his life on the line not to atone for said mistakes, but to protect Sherlock from the world of hurt he would have felt, had he been forced to shoot John.

John was frustrated. He didn’t mean to go off on Sherlock, but still, his chest was weighted with grief. The gray haired man was going to miss Mycroft Holmes, but Sherlock lost his brother. 

Sherlock should be the one shouting and getting frustrated at John. John was troubled and confused as to why he felt so attacked by Sherlock’s lack of interest. The doctor wasn’t incredibly involved in the Holmes’ personal affairs, but shouldn’t there be more than just that? One dies, and the other’s not at all bothered?

He thought of how unbothered Mycroft had been when Sherlock faked his death, and how angry he had felt back then.

Then again, Mycroft had also been behind the planning for Sherlock’s disappearance.

Several thoughts still running through John’s head, he huffed out. He slid down next to Sherlock. The gray haired man stared at his knees uncomfortably.

John didn’t think Sherlock was listening, but an apology felt necessary nonetheless. Whether Sherlock cared or not, he experienced a loss that would affect him for the rest of his life. John hadn’t needed to add that onto his plate.

“Look, Sherlock,” he stifled. “Maybe it was just a long shift and I’m exhausted, but I…” John trailed off as he glanced at Sherlock’s face.

The detective no longer held a passive expression, but rather a pinched and pained one. His jaw was tight, and Sherlock seemed to be struggling to keep his composure.

“Sherlock?” John observed him. He was, of course, shocked by the state his flatmate was in. 

The dark haired man’s breathing had grown heavy, but slow. He was trying to regain control. At John’s attempt to regain his attention, he shook his head shortly.

The doctor was afraid. He wasn’t very good with emotional situations either, but at least he was aware. The only time he’d seen his friend in said state, he’d told him he had to be stronger, that they had to be soldiers given the situation.

But now wasn’t the time to be a soldier. Sherlock was, now clearly to John, grieving. The doctor felt the guilt weigh heavier. He had caused Sherlock to breakdown.

Sherlock just wanted to drown everything out. He didn’t have to think about his brother if he didn’t want to. He chose to receive Mycroft Holmes’ death as an outsider, where his death only meant one less government official. He could put off the torture of grief, at least until the funeral.

But the more John spoke, the less he was able to tune him out. There was still time, he didn’t have to feel this way just yet.

His friend placed an arm around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s face grew hot. There was nothing he could do anymore. His brother was gone.

“Stop.” The detective said shakily, “I can’t…I can’t do this.”

John pulled Sherlock closer, keeping a firm hold around his grieving friend. 

Sherlock seemed to crumple at the comfort his friend had provided, his hands tugging at his hair. His breath hitched.

When the tears came, they were hot and unwelcomed. Sherlock shook as the wave of grief seemed to bore into him.

When John had pulled his friend into a rare hug, he hadn’t expected Sherlock to bury his face into his jumper. His hands clenched onto the loose fabric of the jumper, his face red and his knuckles white. 

John felt a cold, steel ball in the bit of his stomach. He should have never ranted at Sherlock.

His thoughts were interrupted by the stifled sob of his flatmate. Sherlock hadn’t meant to pour all his grievances onto his friend, but with the dam now broken, it seemed as if he didn’t have any control over what came out. 

“I can’t do this without him,” Sherlock’s words blended together, “He’s gone, John. He’s gone.”

They stayed that way for half an hour before Sherlock finally exhausted himself. His face was red and splotchy, and his eyes were dreadfully irritated. He was too distraught with grief to feel embarrassed, but he knew his friend must be a bit uncomfortable.

John’s joints ached from the position and had started protesting long before Sherlock had pulled away. The doctor took a closer look at his friend.

Sherlock wouldn’t look him in the eyes. The air grew thick.

John was the one to break the silence. 

“Are you still starving?” John tried. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson brought it in. With tax, of course. If we don’t hurry, there probably won’t be any left.” He grinned.

Sherlock let out a pained laugh at John’s change of subject. He ran his hand over his still-wet face. 

“God, John,” his hand muffled his croak. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled.

The doctor was glad to see Sherlock lighten up, even if it was barely at all. 

“Are you going to be alright?”

Sherlock sighed.

“Probably not,” the detective answered honestly. “But,” he began.

“But?”

“It is what it is,” Sherlock grinned back at John.

“You bastard…” John smiled back.

**Author's Note:**

> It's 4:30 am, and i'm exhausted. hope you liked it! i've been looking for fics kinda like this that deal with someone having a breakdown & having someone there for them, y'know? if you have any, esp featuring angsty sherlock let me know!
> 
> this idea kept popping up when i tried to fall asleep, so might as well write it out. no beta, so i apologize for any mistakes i might have made. much love!
> 
> Holiday


End file.
